I don’t have anything much: a pack
of smokes, a cupcake, half a Coke,
a sheaf of half-finished poems. A limp leg
with a delayed step and a stutter now and
then — more now than then.

This is how I live. Stammer out the poem
to the paper. Stumble to the stage
very rarely. Repeat, sipping on the Coke
until there’s just a half swallow left
in my mouth. I wonder why I don’t swallow.
Toss the smokes, toss the cup: done. I’d toss
the poems if there was an inferno close by.

Maybe you’ve been here, stuck between
the past diligence of yesterday and
the casual loss, or half loss, of today;
maybe you know there’s enough in the swallow
to sate your thirst and be done and that is why
you don’t finish. You can’t stand the thought
of being done, of having said the last words.

One day you will have no conscious choice.
You will spit a poem, savor it on your lips,
and be done. You will go home with it
hanging out there and be done with it.
You will swallow the last of the Coke and
be done with it. You will die like peace itself
in the arms of war, or you will slip away
before, or after, the war begins.

Any way you can you will call an end
to war and peace, hostility and gentle rain.
You’ll do it without an announcement.
You will slip away into a great gray sleep
and leave this mess, this magnificent chaos,
to sort itself out. How it fends, at last,
will not be your concern.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T